Poem Entitled Grandfather’s Hands
by Julianne Jigour
The backs of Grandfather’s hands
are red-splotched and faint-haired.
The skin loose and delicate.
Blue rivulets spread wildly.
Like little secrets,
they impose their shape.
Flesh fades into translucence,
I think, and that’s death.
But Grandfather’s fingers
are tough-callused at the tips.
Five yellowed nails
brighten the aged veneer
of accordion keys that
submit to his touches.
The other hand holds
the opposite end, guides
the black fan of it in its deep,
slow breathing.
The waltz his hands mold
plays lustily through the room.
Brushes the closed curtains
and skirts the stained
carpet. Consumes lovingly
the empty spaces
between dusty boxes,
old cards and photographs
that bear Grandmother’s
delicate fingerprints.
Grandmother’s small fingerprints,
like her unobtrusive voice.
If Grandfather were sound, she
was silence, her weak figure
in that dilapidated
armchair, her body the history
of knee and hip replacements.
Grandfather, I want to ask,
did you waltz with her
when you were young? Hands
taut and smooth. Fingers
urgent. How did you love her
with those hands? Did you press
on her hips, hold her small
face, careful not to break her? Did
your hands meet the flesh
under her clothes with artful
delicacy? Could you hear
her secrets hushed beneath
your voice, could you feel
them through the calluses
on your hands?
But I don’t ask Grandfather
these things. Instead I listen
to his duple rhythms, watch
his curved fingers dance
from black to white and remember
how he scared me as a child
when I couldn’t mimic
the keyboard notes he taught
me. Once, my eyes grew damp
and blurred so that my soft fingers
couldn’t discern between keys. I ran
to Grandmother’s lap and curled
into myself. And Grandmother
left my wet cheeks undefiled
by the silence of her hands.
